


Rough

by yeaka



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 17:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10791411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: After the funeral, Kevin waits up for his husband.





	Rough

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set directly after the funeral in s3e2...
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Brooklyn 99 or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He had a long day himself, but he avoids retreating to the bedroom—it doesn’t feel right to slink into the safety of dreams when he knows Raymond’s still suffering. Raymond’s normal level of composure, that same sturdiness that first attracted Kevin all those years ago, has eroded since his ‘promotion.’ The only way Kevin knows how to help is to simply _be there_. So he lounges on the sofa in the living room, a glass of Bordeaux in his hand and the classical musings of Sergei Rachmaninoff lilting through the speakers. In a comfortable sweater and dress pants, he arranges himself invitingly on one end, leaving plenty of room for his husband to join him. No matter how aggravating Raymond’s new job might be, Kevin hopes that _home_ will always be worth coming back to. 

It’s a good hour before he hears the door open, and Kevin’s glass is nearly empty, the record at its bitter end. He isn’t angry, exactly, at being made to wait up late—merely _irritated_ , in that subtle, thoughtful sort of sense; it’s a betrayal to Raymond every but as much as him. The Raymond Holt he married simply _doesn’t_ come home late without good reason, and this new desk job offers no such excuses. 

To make matters worse, Raymond is precisely three and a half minutes longer than usual at the door. Kevin doesn’t get up to greet him. When Raymond finally wanders through the living room doorway, there’s a slight sway in his step, and his eyes are darker than usual. He looks straight at Kevin and opens his mouth, perhaps to say _I’m sorry_ , but pride closes him up again. He isn’t one for easy apologies. Kevin carefully sets his glass down on a coaster and extends one hand. With a tired sigh, Raymond walks towards it. His gait is unsettlingly sluggish. 

He drops onto the sofa with far too much weight, and he goes straight for a sloppy kiss that has Kevin stiff with surprise. He blinks at Raymond afterwards and has to turn his head away to avoid another one. 

He says, more in shock than accusation, “You’re _drunk_.”

Raymond snorts and pointedly eyes the bottle on the coffee table, but that’s entirely different. Kevin can tell that Raymond didn’t take a few restrained sips of an expensive year, but downed cheap liquor at a bar. Though Kevin tries not to hear much of Raymond’s work, he almost wants to ask how the speech at the funeral went. He thinks he might have to do more comforting than he expected.

Raymond doesn’t ask for comfort, just tries to give Kevin another stifling kiss. Kevin holds a hand between their mouths, shrinking back, and reciting dully, “You know the rules.” No drunken slobbering. An annoyed look flashes through Raymond’s eyes.

But then it’s gone as quick as it came, and he straights again—or as much as his ill mood seems to allow—and he shakes his head, sighing, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” He lifts his hand to rub over his bare skull, elbow digging into the back of the sofa. He’s still in his full work gear, his complete uniform and all his stripes and medals. Kevin can’t resist reaching down to tug it flat again, smoothing over the front. Raymond does look good in his uniform, as little love as Kevin has for the police. When his gaze returns to Raymond’s sinking features, he feels his chest clench. 

He murmurs, “No, _I’m_ sorry,” and pecks Raymond’s cheek. He opens his arms, allowing Raymond into them in the privacy of their living room, all their curtains drawn against the stars. In the dimmed light of the fireplace, Raymond seems horribly _vulnerable_. Kevin pours more warmth into their embrace than usual, because for once, Raymond isn’t his rock. 

He’s never been as stable, as strong as his husband, but he signed on for better or worse, and he tries. He hooks his head over Raymond’s shoulder, crushes Raymond’s broad chest against him, and promises, “Things will get better.” Even if it means returning to his old precinct. Kevin never thought he’d want that, but for Raymond’s sake, he does.

He wants Raymond to come home proud and bright-eyed again. He means to pull back and take Raymond’s hand in his, guide Raymond up to bed, and offer what little peace can be found in dreams.

But Raymond still clings hard to him, refusing to let go. So Kevin holds him back as long as he needs. 

Eventually, Kevin realizes that Raymond’s fallen fast asleep against him, and for once, he allows the impropriety, and they both sleep on the sofa like cretins.


End file.
